For Sophus Lie
Through the mists of Avalon, all for you, I go from doing backbends in the old cemetery to supplicating, also on my back, and also for you. Where goes the limit? The one to waiting? The one to knowledge? I take another cherry. A grotesquely big one. This is a bloody affair. My fingers get stained. But I lick them with such passion and speed. With my eyes closed, and mouth full of the red stuff, I suspend the ground between my youthful body, a gift of nature, and my white hair, a work of art. Eating shifts what tilts the dominant pendulum. All for you, but whether thus or thus? Between ontology and epistemology my gut opens itself like a gorge to give a façade to the limit. I have become a wall through which you pierced a nail. I hang my questions on it. You wail and wait.